The Melting of the Ice Man
by Hedgehogs and Tea
Summary: How Sherlock Holmes managed to introduce Mycroft Holmes and DI Lestrade, and save them from themselves. M for mentions of drug use
1. Chapter 1

People that know Sherlock Holmes will know how brilliant he is.  
People who are slightly closer to him will also know that his boredom is dangerous.  
People who listen to him will definitely know the lengths he would go to, to prevent his boredom.  
And finally, if they are very close to him, and have saved his life, preventing him from doing anything, will know of some of the measures he took.  
One of them being substance abuse.

But this isn't about Sherlock. Well, not completely. This is about two of the only three people that knew about this, although Sherlock does get the thanks for introducing them. Albeit in an incredibly anti-climatical manner, but he still claims credit. Sherlock did not ask people to 'save' him from himself. He asked for an escape route from the boredom that tore down his walls. He lived in 221B Baker Street by himself, and when his mind fell into the caverns of depression and stinging self hatred, Mrs. Hudson would bring him tea and try to talk him out of them. The words she supplied didn't help when he found another out, a 'certain percent stronger than tea'. 7% would have been his choice. Nothing drew him out completely, and he fell into a downwards spiral. During this period, he tried anything and everything to rectify his peace of mind. Due to this experimenting, it turns out that no, Sherlock Holmes is not a virgin. He is a flamboyant, but unavailable, homosexual man. If you were to ask him about his preferences, say, over dinner, he would skirt around answering, unwilling to remember the time when cocaine and sex were his only escapes. The conversation would be likely to go like this;

"You've got a girlfriend?" The response to this would be a sharp look with an equally pointed reply.  
"No, women... Not really my area."  
"Oh, so... A boyfriend then?" Would be met by a glare.  
"Which is... Fine by the way."  
"I know it's fine." Because, really even if he wouldn't admit it, he'd protect his sexuality.  
"So, you got one-"  
"No."

But a conversation of that magnitude with Sherlock Holmes is to be avoided under all circumstances. Well, unless you've just agreed to move in with him, and you are a self confident ex-army doctor whose name begins with J and ends with N and rhymes with 'marathon'.

The only thing that granted him relief, even if only temporary, were cases. He adopted a completely different frame of mind, and barely needed cocaine to concentrate.

And then the addiction got worse.  
He couldn't go 50 hours without shooting up.  
When a particularly nasty case came his way, he threw himself into the work, needing the distraction.

And then he was stuck in the Yard, desperate for his next fix but unable to do anything about it, but he couldn't not have a hit. Excusing himself, the gangly man ran back to his flat and enjoyed a blissful five minutes of his high, before someone came knocking on the door. Lying stock still on the couch, waiting for the intruder to leave, his heart became a small bird, smashing at his ribs, attempting to make it known to all that he was lying on the couch, that he was here! Here! Here! When a voice resonated through the wood.

"Don't hide from me, Sherlock, I know you're in there. You left your case files at the Yard." Restraining himself as Lestrade entered and shoved the files down was hard. The moment the man was out the flat's door, he stopped feigning sleep and jumped up. Unfortunately, by this point the cocaine had stopped aiding him, and started degrading his abilities. The moment he hit the floor, Lestrade entered again.

"Ah. I thought you were awake." Sherlock looked down, ashamed and made a hasty retreat to the kitchen.  
"Look at me." The voice came from the kitchen archway. Sherlock nearly dropped the papers from the shock he received, as it was magnified by fear. Staring down at them still, he asked;  
"Why?"  
"Sherlock, you may think I'm an idiot but I got my job for a reason. You used to bug me all the time about cases, now I consult you. You left the Yard as quickly as you could, today and you forgot something. You also didn't notice that I'd be able to hear the sound of you stomping around, or that Donovan told Anderson to 'go fuck a dinosaur' and they are no longer sleeping together. That with the shaking fingers and twitchy movements, you're addicted to something. Strong."  
"You missed the part where she called him a 'pre-historic cock-sucker."  
"Look at me!" Greg's voice bordered on a yell. With small, fumbling motions, Sherlock stumbled up to Greg, and stared at his feet.  
"You won't like it." He raised his eyes to the older man's, meeting his warm brown gaze with pupils so dilated they were almost pinpricks sitting in a bed of turquoise ice.

Twenty minutes later had them back at the Yard, except this time Sherlock was sitting in a cell, slowly coming to his senses.

Back in his office, Lestrade made to sit down and start on the mountains of paperwork when the door swung open. A criminally tall and thin man with auburn hair, an impeccable suit and oddly attractive face walked in. Greg had seen him a few times, knowing only that he was Sherlock's brother, and as Sherlock put it "Hugely fat (not true, the suit clung in all the right places, and if Greg wasn't married he'd have made a move the moment the man walked through the door) and owning a position in the British Government." Although all the times Sherlock had said it, he had mimicked his brother's voice, so the position was still unclear to Greg.

"Thank you for taking care of him."

The man's voice was melodious and deep, just like his brothers. The unconventionally attractive thing must be a Holmesian trait.

"I'd hardly call it that, the man injected himself with a highly illegal drug, for god's sake." The man's lips twitched up, while Lestrade dug through the piles of paperwork, trying to find the right forms. The ones labelled Sherlock Holmes- which he would give to The Man, to sign (who would record the number on them, and then make them disappear, but Greg didn't have to know that.)  
"I'm not meant to have them; they should be downstairs with Drug Control." Sherlock's increasingly attractive brother frowned.  
"You arrested him?" The taller man's voice was a mixture of surprised annoyance. Lestrade glanced up at him, a small furrow appearing between his eyebrows.  
"I had to." The Man's frown deepened.  
"Thank you for notifying me." Lestrade nodded at the government official.  
"I need him on my cases, so it wasn't all for him and, uh, you. Having a drugged up consultant is a hard thing to explain to my superiors." The half smile appeared again.  
"It would be... Useful if you assisted me in getting him clean."  
"In between the cases and paperwork?"  
"In between the imminent wars and failing countries."  
"So, not a minor position?"  
"Will you help?" A grin spread over Lestrade's face.  
"Sure. I'm Greg Lestrade."  
"Mycroft Holmes."  
There was silence for another minute, with Mycroft surveying Greg while he searched.  
"I take it Sherlock has told you about me."  
"Bits and pieces."  
"Hm." Greg nearly grinned at the man, who could put so much annoyance into a one syllable word. As it was, a small smile found residence on his lips as he found the papers, and slid them across the desk to Mycroft, who picked up a pen and signed them with a flourish.  
Mycroft stood and addressed his with a gaze that seemed to uncover all of his secrets.  
"Thank you, Detective Lestrade, I-"  
"Greg."  
"Pardon?"  
"Greg, call me Greg."  
Mycroft stared at him in disbelief.  
"Uhm, Gregory. I will be seeing you soon." He paused and then hurried on, glossing over the blip in concentration with hurried sentences. "To discuss Sherlock. You will gain a warrant to search his flat for drugs, and to keep him locked up until the drugs have left his system." Mycroft granted him a small smile and almost left. One foot out the door, he turned back and said;  
"Next time he does it- bring him to me. Don't bother with the legal process."  
"You think he'll do it again?"  
"He's Sherlock Holmes. He'll do anything again if it gives him a thrill." Mycroft pulled a business card out of his pocket and considered it for a few seconds, before pulling his colour coded pen out of his pocket -the man colour coded his suits, handkerchiefs and pens? Maybe he might be gay. Or just very posh... Still unclear- and writing a different number on the back. He handed it over, saying;  
"My business number and my personal number. Call for anything. Also, dinner, Thursday night. We have some things we need to discuss. I'll have someone pick you up." And with a small smirk/ smile, he walked out.

Lestrade stared at the number with a small smile on his face before returning to his work. If he didn't know better, he'd almost believe he just made friends with The British Government. A ridiculously attractive Government, at that. Who he had made stammer and ramble. Which had given him an unjustified sense of accomplishment. He grinned, and hoped he would see the other man again, before getting to work on the mountains of paperwork sitting on his desk.

Thursday rolled around, and Sherlock was doing remarkably well, for a withdrawal patient. Minimal threatening and more deductions, more writhing around on the floor in agony, more begging. No violence so far, and the first three days are the worst. On this Thursday, Greg had locked Sherlock back in his cell, and told him in no uncertain terms that he was going to sleep and if anything happened, Sherlock would be locked in there for double his recovery time. Once he had recovered. The response he got to this was a; 'hmpfh' and Sherlock turning over, away from him.

"You're seeing my brother, don't lie. Ask him if he's on another diet yet." Greg simply laughed and walked out of the holding area.

He got back to his house at 7, and his wife was waiting for him.

"This is earlier than usual."  
"I told you, I'm going to dinner with a man, we have to discuss the consultant I hire for cases."  
"The druggie?"  
Greg sighed, and walked into the bathroom.  
"We're trying to straighten him out." He snorted. Straightening Sherlock Holmes would take more than a few weeks in a cell. And that's just his mental state, not his sexual orientation.  
"Over dinner?"  
"Talking in an office limits imagination."  
"Whatever."

Greg frowned as he got ready for his shower. Why hadn't Mycroft just finished the discussion in his office? Sure, the man's busy, but not that busy. He could have come back later... Or maybe he was right, and he had made friends with the elusive British Government, who didn't make friends, as a rite. Or maybe he'd seen Greg's far too appreciative... they could hardly be called glances... More like stares and had only arranged this to tell him, clearly and without fault; No, he is not gay, interested or available. Please stop staring. Although, Greg wouldn't be upset about the chance to simply be his friend, he'd seen the ring; they're both married for god's sake! Even though Greg was married, his marriage wasn't going as well as it was four years ago. But no, Mycroft wouldn't want him. He decided, and carved it, rock solid, into the walls of his mind, and was happy with the decision. And anyway, it was Sherlock they were helping by having dinner today.

He showered, shaved, dressed and was ready with ten minutes to spare. His wife appeared in the doorway of the bedroom.

"You never look that good on dates with me." He huffed and did up his cufflinks, not believing he looked even decent. He had donned a charcoal grey suit with a pale grey shirt and cufflinks that, when brought near to his face, subtly brought out the kind brown of his eyes. He hadn't bothered with a tie, thinking it would be a casual dinner, where business matters were discussed.

"You never want to go out on dates with me."

He looked over at that statement, and slipped his phone into his pocket.

"We'll go out on a date soon." He dropped a kiss on the top of her head as he walked past. A small smile formed on her lips. He spent the last ten minutes filling out paperwork as he waited. A knock sounded on the door, he swung it open to reveal Mycroft, who was dressed in a deep bottle green suit that beautifully contrasted his hair, a crisp white shirt and a gold pocket watch chain hanging from the paler green waistcoat. All in all, the view was going to be lovely all evening. Greg grinned at the thought.

"I need my phone, be there in a second." He turned and strode to the kitchen table, pressing a gentle kiss to his wife's lips as he left, holding his keys and phone.

Greg may have got his job for a reason, but this evening he missed quite a few important occurrences. One being his wife texting her lover 'you can come now' and then hiding her phone behind her back as he kissed her goodbye. Another being the frown that formed on Mycroft's face although it cleared the moment he turned around, replaced by one of cool calculation. The final one being his wife's lover sneaking in the back way as he climbed into the sleek black car next to Mycroft.

But then again, he did get his job for a reason, and he'd find out all of these things, in time, but now is not the time. Now is the time for a Government official to make friends with The Government, over dinner while discussing his brother.

"Why do you think he'll do it again?"  
"My brother has a very addictive personality, when he was seven, it was Rice Crispies, when he was fourteen it was study, when he was twenty four it was smoking and now it is cocaine."  
"He was addicted to Rice Crispies?"  
"What do you suppose we do?"  
"Switch him onto a children's cereal." A smile appeared on Mycroft's face, and he almost laughed. Almost.  
"Yes, I'm sure that Snap, Crackle and Pop will appear to help him through his darkest moments."  
"Hey, whatever works for him!" Mycroft was smiling now, with a hint of teeth.  
"Okay, in all seriousness, what brought him out of it?" Mycroft frowned and considered for a moment before replying.  
"Age, for the first. He never really stopped studying and smoking is... A simpler calming method."  
"Yeah, right. I've been trying to quit for years."  
"And if you can't, what hope is there for the rest of us?"  
"If by 'the rest of us' you mean government officials with high pressure jobs, then none."  
Mycroft smiled, full and unreserved.

They sat in comfortable silence before Mycroft spoke again.  
"So what do you propose we do?"  
"Drug busts and surveillance."  
"That can be arranged. Do you think it will work?"  
"No."  
Mycroft grinned at the blunt rationality of the statement.  
"We'll have to keep it up until he's clean."  
"Or dead?"  
"Mummy wouldn't be happy."  
"At least he'd be clean."  
They grinned at each other, and ate in a peaceful silence for a few minutes.

When they'd finished discussing an array of mundane things- none of which were to do with Sherlock- and finally worn each other out with the small talk about families and childhoods, each went their separate ways, and Greg began to believe he had made a friend in the allegedly cruel British Government.

Greg arrived home at ten, and once again, his wife was waiting for him.  
"Nice evening?"  
"Great, thanks." He walked into the bedroom and started removing his jacket, looking in the mirror at the shirt that accented his upper torso muscle and yet couldn't completely hide the small weight gain from a bad diet and sleep patterns, brought on by late nights of paperwork, and hence, accidental sleeping at the office.  
"You haven't spent that long on a date with me since we first met." Greg gave his wife a once over.  
"I told you, I'll take you on a date soon."  
"How soon is soon? Next week, next month, ne-"  
"You're looking for a reason to hate me."  
"No, I'm-"  
"That wasn't a question."  
"You're sleeping on the couch tonight."  
Greg looked in the mirror at her as he pulled his nightshirt over his head.  
"Whatever you say." Greg frowned at his reflection again, wondering, and settling for a sleepless night of wondering how they had come to fight so easily.

Sherlock relapsed three times.

The first;

Greg didn't hear about it, he saw it. He'd come for Sherlock's help with a case, and instead of seeing him bouncing off the walls, desperate for something to do, he was lying on the floor, a syringe on the floor next to him. He'd overdosed, believing his resistance to be as high as it was before he'd gone through withdrawal. Obviously, his need for the high overcame all logic, and he mixed it too strong. Greg did the first thing he could think of; he pulled out his phone and called Mycroft.

"Gregory, this better be important, I have a meeting in four minutes."  
"Sherlock overdosed."  
"221B?"  
"I'm gonna send him to hospital."  
"I'll meet you there in 45."

They both hung up. Greg called the hospital and pushed the thoughts over why he called _Mycroft_ and not the ambulance first to the back of his mind. To stay there. He pushed himself into action, unwilling to think about the man who's friendship he'd grown to depend on, over the months where they'd been going out together and discussing nothing and everything, and then the times when they sat in silence because Mycroft was working, or the times when they discussed serious matters, where only a few smiles were shared during the conversation, but they got the worst out the way and returned to the easy going friendship they'd always maintained.

Later, at the hospital, Mycroft looked at him. Didn't glare or give him a wide eyed knowing glance, just looked at him in a way that said; 'I know what you did, reason around it, you can trust me not to run or get angry.' Later, Greg would realise that he could reason around it. It's Sherlock's brother, the man deserved to be the second to know. They're best friends; of course he's going to instinctively go for the man he discussed this with numerous times. But that's later, this is now. They sit at Sherlock's bedside, two days after he woke up for the first time. The younger man is asleep, and has some damage to nerve tissue, but none that won't heal in time. Lestrade stares at his sleeping face as he talks to the other man occupying the room.

"I could have prevented this." His arms are folded tight against his chest, and he leans against the wall, face drawn tight.  
"If I'd called the ambulance first," neither man had discussed it yet. The taller one's spine stiffens slightly, but only so much that a person familiar to him would notice. Such as Greg. If he was looking.  
"Got there with the files earlier," the taller man exhales, turning his head to look at the silver haired man. His gaze is still riveted upon Sherlock.  
"Ten minutes." He huffed and pushed himself up from the wall, changing the direction of his gaze to Mycroft instead.  
"He'd probably be awake and insulting us all right now." Mycroft took a step towards the forlorn man.  
"Now is not the time for 'what if's', Gregory."  
"I need him on my case, I can't solve it without him."  
"There is another Holmes just as willing to solve a case." The tall man's tone was gentle.  
"Only until he recovers?"  
"Only until he recovers."  
"Shame. I get the feeling you'd be much more civil at crime scenes." Mycroft stared at him after he said this, a smile forming on his face, and a small laugh burst through his lips. Greg didn't bother with the smile and went straight to full out grinning, his teeth glinting in the artificial light, the two men still looking at each other. Taking both of them by surprise, Mycroft strode over and embraced Greg, who tentatively hugged back.

"The babysitter case, yes?" Greg spoke, still wrapped in Mycroft's arms and expensive cologne, his head resting on the man's chest.

"It was the gardener. She was having an affair with the husband who broke it off to pursue one with the babysitter, in a fit of passion she killed them both. You'll find her glove behind the sofa." Greg pulled away and stared at him.

"The husband isn't dead."

"He will be when he says he still doesn't want anything to do with the gardener. You may want to arrest her before she kills the wife, too."

"And when will that be?"  
"Seven hours away, when she gets home from her trip."  
"Ok, I'm gonna go and notify the team, you don't want your name on this..?"  
"No. Put Sherlock's. I'm sure he'll wake up and give you a few facts I missed."  
"Ok, thanks..." He grabbed his jacket and phone, and made to leave. "I'll see you soon, yeah?"  
"I will call you about his situation later."  
Greg smiled and half jogged out the door. Mycroft watched him go and sat next to his brother.

"You can stop pretending now."

"Did he really call you first?" Mycroft looked at him with the perfect expression of the words; stop being an idiot. So similar to Sherlock's that it's unclear which taught the other. Or if they both learnt a genetically identical one that came with years of idiots influencing them from every side. It seemed to be the only likeness the brothers shared.

"Hm. Nice to know I got you your first friend."  
"It's not like you have any."  
"Thought you were above all the 'I have more friends than you' taunts."  
"One is never too old to taunt his younger brother."  
"I didn't know you were the affectionate type."  
"So you saw that?"  
"How's Adam?"  
"Adam has filed for divorce. Apparently my job takes up too much time." The tall man sniffed, in more of a disdainful manner than a disheartened one.  
"Have you told him?"  
"Why should I?"  
"Don't be an idiot, Mycroft."  
"I cannot be classified as an idiot when in the same room as a man who took drugs to take away boredom." His voice was stern, but his eyes were not angry. Sherlock sighed.  
"I suppose there's no chance I can get you to leave my favourite Detective Inspector alone?" Mycroft smiled, unable to remember the last time he'd had a conversation with his brother that didn't involve yelling and threatening.  
"None."  
"You can leave now."

Mycroft could hear the impatient tone, and knew it meant he was glad for the older man, but he didn't say anything, simply walking out and away from the brother that had introduced him to his first friend in far too many years, since he got married. He knew Sherlock would loathe to admit it, but he was glad that his brother had finally begun living, away from the world of politics, again.

**A/N:**_** I am sorry, **_**I am rubbish at uploading or consistency, but I have 3 new things on the way, and this is half of one of them. However, I'm going away tomorrow, so I'll try to upload it within a few days, but it might take up to a week and a half.  
I want to say, thank you everyone that's read any of my work, I started uploading in May, and since then have had 10,000+ views, without uploading anything is the other months, I can't say how grateful I am. Enjoy!  
Love, hugs, hedgehogs and tea. **


	2. Chapter 2

The second;

Worse, in more ways than one. Mycroft fell out of the circle a tiny bit after his divorce, still managing to see Greg every couple of weeks, although Sherlock felt the effects of no longer having a functioning older brother most keenly, and almost to give him something to feel control over, in his darkest hour, he called the man up, and as Mycroft answered with his usual 'What is it this time, Sherlock?' He simply yelled a wordless cry of grief into the phone and hurled it at a wall. Mycroft stared at his suddenly disconnected phone, before picking it up, calling Greg and telling him to 'get the _hell_ to Sherlock's place, I don't know what he's done but for _god's_ sake you're closer so _move_!"

Naturally, Greg was frozen solid for a few seconds, never having heard Mycroft swear before. Even if it was a small swear.

"_Greg_."

"Right, going. You'll be there soon?"

"Yes. You'll arrive the same time as the ambulance; _move._"

"Gone." He hung up and pocketed his phone while running, his head spinning. He'd never heard Mycroft panicked, scared and only worried when discussing his younger brother. Then again, this was his younger brother, and he had reason to be terrified. Last time it was a near death, and there's more than just reason to believe that another relapse had just happened. No matter how Mycroft acted towards his brother normally, they were, and always will be, family, and nothing could, or ever would, change Mycroft's views on family.

Sherlock was being restrained by the ambulance crew when Greg got there.

"Sherlock."

"Good, you're here. My brother needs to tell you why he's upset," he had broken an arm free and was pointing at Greg, completely unaware of his surroundings. Apparently, the arm was just where the man from the crew needed it, because he turned the forearm to face up, and pushed a needle into the skin, putting a mild sedative into his body. Sherlock, oblivious as ever, continued rambling. "Last month, his partner lef- left him. Ad- Ada...h...m..." He turned his head to look at the crew member, and said with pointed bravado; "Ouch." Before promptly passing out. The crew pushed him onto the stretcher, back into the ambulance, and one came to address him.

"Lestrade?"  
"That's me."  
"He was askin' for youh all the time we was 'ere. Said summin' about Mycroft? What kinda name is Mycroft? 'E-"  
"Shouldn't you get him to hospital?"  
"Right sir, sorry sir. Youh're Mycroft?"  
"Obviously." The man, who had appeared out of nowhere, gave him a pointed 'don't mess with me' look. Apparently the man was either too brave, stupid of blind to see it, because he carried on.  
"Youh should tell 'im about Adam." The man strode to the ambulance and got in the passenger seat.  
"Hmmm." The hum came from beside Greg, who turned, arms folded, to look at the man standing with him.  
"Hm?" Mycroft adorned him with a scathing glare. Greg's lips twitched.  
"You know the old saying?" Mycroft gave him a 'what petty nonsense is this?' glare. "Speak of the devil..." Greg's smile was morphing into a grin, now.  
"...and the devil shall appear. Very funny." Mycroft's eyebrows were raised, and he said it in an honest tone, almost consenting to the image that he is some form of the devil. Greg's grin faded, and quickly turned into a frown.

"Do you need a place tonight?" He stared at Mycroft in disbelief, almost unwilling to believe the words came out the man's mouth.

"That would be... Great. Yeah, amazing." He smiled at the taller man, who smiled back with an amount of disbelief, almost surprised at his own forwardness, and Greg's acceptance.

The ambulance pulled away, and Mycroft's lips pulled back into the mandatory cool, closed off expression.

Once in the car, Greg gave Mycroft a searching look.  
"You all right?" Mycroft turned to him, with his usually so closed expression, the one he used for company, completely gone. The expression on his face was blank, with his lips turned down slightly, and his eyes boring into the other man's. Greg drew in a breath, realising it was his first in half a minute, and audibly caught in his throat as Mycroft gave him a small, sad smile.

"My husband divorced me. The final papers went through a week ago today." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, and his eyes still closed.

"Although I do not have much reason to miss him, as it was my job that made us grow apart, and that doesn't show any signs of relocating..." He took a breath, and opened his eyes, staring into Greg's. "I simply don't know how I'll cope without him tonight. I'm sorry Gregory, you don't have to come and witness my coming apart. I feel for you more strongly than I did about Adam, and Sherlock is my brother. While it's still up to me, he will not die by his own hand, that's what he meant. If I allow you to keep on with being my friend," he paused and looked Greg straight in the eye, no notions of lying crossing his face. "I will no longer attempt to conceal my feelings, and you will be put in an awkward position. I-"

"You're rambling." Mycroft looked blankly at him for a few seconds, before making the mask appear again.  
"I apologise. You will be dropped off at your hou-" A pair of lips silenced him mid-sentence. Mycroft tensed, caught completely by surprise. Greg pulled away and looked down. "I think it would be better if I stayed at yours tonight."  
"Greg." He raised his eyes to look into Mycroft's.  
"Thank you." The warm light in the silver haired man's brown eyes lit again. They both knew Mycroft wasn't, and would never be, the best at dealing with emotions, and tonight was not a good night to leave him by himself, lest he drink himself into oblivion, or do something irreversible. The rest of the drive was spent in comfortable, 'a million words were passed without one being said aloud' silence.

This was the first time Greg had seen Mycroft's flat, and upon entering, he just stopped. Stopped and stared for a while. The place deserved to be in a catalogue entitled: 'only for the very rich' or a design magazine.

"Does anyone even live here?" Greg thought aloud as he walked over the plush cream carpet littered with black painted wood stools and a couple of deep red armchairs, casting a richer light on the room from their position in the corner.

"It's so..." He walked through the doors leading to the rest of the flat and peered through them one by one. The bathroom was marble, the kitchen, too. His sitting room looked used, the sofa bearing the imprints of a person in all its glory, about the length of a bed, and just as comfortable, so it looked. The majority of the rooms seemed to be unused; however the unused feel seemed to be a recent thing. Beautifully decorated, all of them, with perfect furnishings, and they all had the look of being frequented in the past.

"Desolate." His tone was incredulous, although he knew the man had a high pressure job, he didn't expect his home life to have come to this.  
And then he walked into the bedroom. And laughed.

"You're joking." Mycroft followed him in, and leaned against the door frame, an almost sour expression on his face.

"I'm afraid not." The room was done in a Japanese style, save the bed that was raised with a comfortable looking mattress, but the room had one wall painted into a mountain, a bruised blue and purple, snow and cloud tipped mountain, in a very traditional brush style. There was a likewise decorated bamboo screen hiding the clothes drawer and, supposedly, Mycroft's changing area. The rest of the room had the same orient design, swirling peacefully across the walls and the bedspread, even on the outside of the hangars around the bed. Greg reached up to touch one of the largest pieces of work hanging on the wall.

"It means 'forever we are together, no matter the distance.' I got it made for Adam. He hated this room." Mycroft breathed a sigh of laughter, almost mocking himself.  
"I designed it, of course." Greg turned to him, surprise on his face.  
"You designed it?" Mycroft reached out and ran his fingers along the bedspread, breathed a murmur of confirmation that was also a sigh.  
"It's wonderful." He said it forcefully, almost. Earnestly and with full belief behind his words. Mycroft smiled at him, and let out a small half laugh.  
"I don't come in here anymore. It gives me bad memories." He stared at the wall as he said it, almost to himself. Greg nodded, and turned around;  
"Come on." It was more of a command than a question, and he threw it over his shoulder while turning to stride out the door. Mycroft followed, his long gait catching up to Greg's in seconds. They stood in the kitchen, Greg staring around at the vast array of _things _strewn through the room. He laughed and turned, almost accusing the other man.  
"I'm not gonna stop being impressed today, am I?" Mycroft grinned back at him;  
"I sincerely hope not." Greg exhaled, covering up another laugh, walking into the kitchen and pulling out items with practiced grace. Greg worked without words, creating a mixture from memory with the effortless dance of someone who had done the same thing a thousand times over.  
"Should I be worried about the imminent destruction of my kitchen?" Greg picked up the spoon he had dropped and glared at the man lounging against the wall.  
"Pancakes are not destruction."  
"They are if you don't take that off the heat." Greg's eyes widened and he spun around, pulling the pan away from the flames with a muttered curse, while behind him, Mycroft chuckled quietly.  
"I'm planning on completely ruining your diet, you know." The shorter man said with a grin, as he deposited a large plate of golden syrup and strawberry-laden pancakes into Mycroft's hands.  
"I believe you already have." The taller said while assessing the plate with an air similar to one he would give to a particularly unpleasant business acquaintance. Greg's smile grew wider, as he leaned over and pushed a kiss onto Mycroft's cheek. The man in the doorway stared at him with innocent shock, almost hiding the undertone of fear lying beneath the surface. The fear that he would leave, revert back to the old friendship, not have the same depth of feeling that Mycroft had, anything but fear at the other man's actions.

Unfortunately, Greg is not psychic, and didn't know that Mycroft thought like that. What Greg saw was a man who'd just suffered another emotional hit, and didn't need, or want, any advances from silver-haired DI's.

Then again, Greg is, was, and always shall be, brutally unsubtle in a vaguely charming way.  
"Hey." He pulled Mycroft's chin gently around, so the other man would meet his eyes. "Hey. Go into the living room. I'll be there in a minute." Mycroft looked at him, considering what the other man would do, before nodding and pressing his lips to Greg's forehead.  
There marked the moment when Greg began to realise what the fear could have meant, but he wrote it off as being shock, and followed the other man into the room, pancakes in hand.

The two spent an evening just watching and talking, distracting themselves with each other, forgetting about what Sherlock had done, and the full extent of why he had done it.  
The 'why' being to get Mycroft to admit, and explain, about Adam and his emotional distress, all the more amplified by his brother's relapse. The fact hits home, as at about eleven o'clock, Greg smiles at him, a smile that only he has seen, one he doesn't use in public. It's a 'that's funny but I'm smiling because you're here' smile, and Mycroft doesn't know how to respond. A tear slips from the side of his eye, and the smile fall off Greg's face, if it was in any other circumstance it would be comical, but here he simply reaches up and pushes the tear away, replacing it with his lips. Mycroft's arms slide around the other man's waist, and he pulls away, only to give himself enough space to meet Greg's lips with his own.

They kiss silently on the sofa, each pretending that they don't need it as much as the other, until comforting is not an excuse, and they kiss just because they can, and fall asleep next to each other in a tangle of limbs, on Mycroft's too-big sofa.

They never mention it.  
They pretend it was just for comfort, and both agree they would prefer not to risk their friendship.

When he can't sleep, Greg thinks it was the worst decision he ever made.  
When he can't sleep, Mycroft swears that one day, he'll tell Greg that it was probably the best night of his life.  
Including the time he punched Sherlock in the face and got away with it.

The third, and hopefully last;

It's all thanks to Mrs. Hudson that Sherlock's still alive. She found him passed out on the floor, and rang Greg, informing him that Sherlock 'is face down on the living room floor and needs something to keep himself occupied, I don't know if it's too much trouble? You know how he is...'  
He was still awake and conscious at that time. It was after Mrs. Hudson left that he decided he needed a hit.

Sleep deprivation took its toll just as he started measuring the drug out, and he made it too strong, and pushed just over half into his system just as Greg walked through the door. The DI pulled the needle out, threw the tourniquet across the room and dragged Sherlock into the recovery position, just as his body started convulsing. The man struggled to hold the writhing body on the floor still, lest he injure himself more, and pulled out his phone, calling Mycroft's number, and yelling a few choice words about his brother through the line. By the time Mycroft got there, the initial danger and muscle contractions had passed, and Sherlock was curled into a ball on the sofa, breathing deeply and watching the man sitting on the floor next to the chair. The man on the floor next to the chair breathed deeply and tried not to break down.  
He'd failed.

Mycroft walked through the door, and assessed Sherlock.  
"You're going to rehab."  
The eyes snapped straight to Mycroft's face, and widened in what they both knew was terror, and what they both pretended was anger.  
"I do not need it." His voice was muffled by his own body, curled into himself as tightly as he was.  
"Then what was this?" Mycroft's voice was perfectly level. Greg's eyes were trained on him, watching the flickering of suppressed emotion behind his mask.  
"This was necessary."  
"For?"  
"You two. You're both idiots." His voice rose on the last word. The other two men glanced at each other, and then Sherlock.

"Idiots." Greg deadpanned.

"Look at you! You're both so fucking _weak_, you can't even admit you'd be better off together." His voice was incredulous and scorning. Mycroft took out his phone.

"Anthea, I need a plane to Sweden. The centre we talked about. For him. Yes. Now." He put away his phone and surveyed the younger man.

"If you want to bring a bag..?"

Sherlock's eyes were fixed on the floor, and he straightened himself as much as he could, pulling out his violin, and claiming he didn't need anything else. Mycroft nodded, and pointed at the car outside.

"You're not going to watch my every move?"

Mycroft looked him in the eye, and said a simple, one syllable;

"No."

The brothers met each other's eyes, and the younger realised that it was Mycroft saying he was done with Sherlock's cries for attention. If he wanted the last help Mycroft would give, then he could take it in silence.

Sherlock stood, framed perfectly in the doorway, before turning his head enough to address Greg.  
"Lestrade. Don't let him go off-track."  
Before walking down the stairs. The two older men stood together at the window and stared at him getting in the car.

Greg's eyes rose to the man standing stock still next to him.  
"Mycroft?"

The taller man's head lowered, and he stared at Greg as if he hadn't noticed he was in the room.

"Goodbye."

When his footsteps faded, it left Greg standing in the empty flat by himself. It looked less lived in than Mycroft's flat. He shivered, and realised he just wanted Mycroft, screw what they had said about their friendship, the man needed comfort just as much as him, and two mistakes don't matter, not in the bigger picture.

When Mycroft decided to go home the next day, he found a Detective Inspector eating omelette in his kitchen.

"You should get him to find a flatmate."  
"Pardon?"  
"Sherlock... Your younger brother... If he had a flatmate, he might not almost kill himself on a monthly basis." Mycroft stared at Greg, disbelieving of his suggestion.  
"My brother would not keep a flatmate for more than a month."  
"Then as many flatmates as he'll scare away, until he can find one that won't leave."  
"You think that could happen?" Greg looked up at Mycroft, listening to the carefully hopeful tone in his voice.  
"Yes. He's not a monster." Mycroft sat down heavily next to Greg, and indicated the plate;  
"May I have some?" The other man's eyes stayed fixed on his face.  
"You're eating?" His tone was a prime example of exaggerated surprise. Mycroft's face lifted in a reluctant half smile.  
"I am if you are." Greg smiled back, and raised his fork to Mycroft's lips, which wrapped around the metal and drew it into his mouth, his eyes never wavering from Greg. He swallowed, and his tongue traced invisible remnants of sauce from his lips, while he hummed in approval. Greg reached over and replaced the place where the fork had been with his lips. They kissed in silence for a moment, before one of them drew back.  
"I thought we agreed not to do this." Mycroft's eyes were shut as he spoke.  
"Dull." Greg grinned.  
"It's gonna go cold."  
"This is more fun."  
Greg pulled back and smiled innocently at Mycroft.  
"To be fair, it is quite nice." He took another bite and continued smiling.  
"Where did you learn to cook?"  
"My dad was a chef. Taught me a few things. And how to cook." He smirked and looked up through his lashes at the other man.  
"Not that I use it as a come on, or anything." Mycroft's smile took on a dazed quality as a variety of scenes ran through his head. Greg chuckled at him, and finished the last of the omelette. He stood up to wash the dishes, and Mycroft stood with him, crowding him against the sink, and whispering in his ear;  
"Can't that wait until a later date? Say, tomorrow?" The show of how eager he was to relocate them was pressed into Greg's lower back. Greg simply grinned, and pushed back into the other man.  
"The second sign of a good cook is that they always finish the washing up."  
"What's the first?"  
"They get someone so eager that they protest rule two."  
"And rule three?"  
"There's a rule three?" Mycroft chuckled as Greg pushed him backwards, back towards his bedroom. This was the first time they'd done this, and he was elated. He hoped, with all his soul, it wouldn't be the last.

The night passed in a hazy blur of passion and comfort. The two slept peacefully for the first time in months, wrapped in each other's limbs.

Two weeks after, Greg and his wife faced each other over the kitchen table for what felt like the first time in years, both of them pretending they're not cheating on the other, both their movements stiff with forced politeness. Half an hour passed, and with it, only small talk, and both of their faith in the marriage. As his wife walked out, she paused in the doorway.  
"I tried, Greg. We should get divorced." A deep breath punctuated the finish of her sentence. Greg stared at her silhouette, lit by the sunlight streaming in from the windows behind her. She turns, and Greg could see enough of her features to meet her eye, before nodding.  
Hours later, he rings Mycroft.  
"Greg, I'm a bit busy at the moment, would you mind if I-"  
"Mycroft."  
"Do you need me?"  
"I need to stop this."  
"This."  
"Us."  
"Yes, I got that. Can I ask-"  
"No."  
"Greg-"  
"No."  
The dial tone played in Mycroft's ear, and he lowered the phone slowly, feeling something he hadn't since his father had died, and left him with a reputation and fancy clothes and a sense of overpowering loneliness. It was like that, except worse. Mycroft's eyes flicked back up to his office surroundings, and fixed onto the pocket watch Greg had given him, propped up on the mantel place above the large, old fashioned fireplace. He considered his phone for a second before throwing it, overhand, straight into the watch, and watching as they both fell to the floor, and cracked.  
The up to date surface of the sleek and modest phone, and the glass casing of the handsome and yet understated pocket watch.  
Neither really worked the same way again.

Greg was a mess. And when Greg says mess, he means triple-homocide-someone-help-him-before-he-has-a-mental-breakdown mess, not teenage girl 'this tub of ice cream and soppy movie will soothe my broken heart for a few hours'  
Because Greg was suffering from the loss of his wife _and_ the only man that'd made him feel actually alive since he'd first met his wife, and look how that turned out. But the thing about Greg is that he doesn't like asking for help. He'll acknowledge that he's desperate, or in great need of a point in the right direction, or even to help someone else, and earn him a gain in the same moment, but when it all boils down to it, he's very secure in himself, so when he really needs a shoulder to cry on, he puts a false sense of worth on his own head, almost convincing himself that he can shoulder it all. He doesn't do it very often, and it's one of his only character flaws; he can assess situations from every angle, he's good at that, it's why he's a Detective Inspector, and pretty damn great at his job.  
But everyone has moments of self-doubt, believing that they can handle it, and finding everything overwhelming.  
This is one of Greg's moments; he sat on his bed in the half-light, wishing Mycroft were there to reason it out to him, to tell him that he's being stupid, and just because most of his past relationships had gone the same path as his marriage doesn't mean that Mycroft will do the same.  
Unfortunately, Mycroft is not there to whisper words of reasoning, or even mindless comforting noises. So he sat there in the dark, and did what he could with his own degrading reasoning. He came to three decisions.

A divorce was the best option, no use crying over spilt milk.

Sherlock would kill him when he got back from Sweden.

Mycroft can't be the same as his ex's if they're never in a relationship.

Sherlock didn't quite kill him. Threatened him endlessly, until Mycroft (his friend once again) had to cut off his allowance, forcing him to get a flat share. Therefore, forcing John Watson to move into Sherlock's life, become the third person to know about Sherlock's drug habits.  
John Watson moves into Sherlock's bedroom shortly after.

All in all, Greg's quite happy. He's not worrying about Sherlock every other day, Mycroft is his grounding presence, his best friend, and John is proving to be a great friend to him, and a great partner- in both senses of the word- to Sherlock. That is, until one overcast day, a medical trauma case brings both Sherlock and John to appear at the scene, standing too close to each other and talking in hushed voices.  
"Subtle." Both heads whip around to glare at him, and he grins sheepishly, raising his hands.  
"Body's inside. Seven stab wounds to the stomach, made post-death."  
"Cause of death?"  
"Haven't found it." Sherlock nodded at him and strode inside, diagnosing the victim to be a beginner drug addict, most likely killed by injecting something other than the drug inside him, probably by the drug dealer, due to an overdue payment. Sherlock and John left the room first, allowing Greg's team through. When Greg emerged, he was greeted with the sight of Mycroft Holmes, suit and umbrella in place, talking with Sherlock about some work he wanted the younger brother to do. When Sherlock tried to protest, Mycroft reminded him of the date, his eyes widened and he nodded quickly, before walking away swiftly. Mycroft smirked after him, and remarked;  
"That was easy. Now if you don't mind, I have yet another meeting to attend, Greg I'll see you tonight." And with a nod, he turned away and sauntered down the road. When Greg averted his eyes from the man's retreating form, he met John's, who was staring at him incredulously.

"What's the date?"  
"Last year, Sherlock had to be rescued off his living room floor, because he hadn't measured the dose of cocaine correctly." There were a few beats of silence, where John mulled this over, and seemed to come to a conclusion.  
"Is he a good one?"  
"What?"  
"Mycroft. Though, trust us to pick the Holmes brothers." He grinned reproachfully, while Greg just stared, slack jawed.  
"We're not..."  
"Then you should be." John narrowed his eyes at Greg. "Greg, if you're telling me that you look at Mycroft that way because he's your friend, then you need to re-assess your outlook on life." His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and he smiled again, smaller this time. "Worked for me."  
"Mycroft doesn't- not anymore." Greg's voice had taken on a tone that only those who knew self-placed defeat could understand. Thankfully, John knew people.  
"I have never seen Mycroft look at... _anyone_ the way he looks at you." Greg stared straight ahead.  
"Okay."  
"Okay?"  
"Yeah, okay. Excuse me, tell Donovan I put her in charge for a few minutes, I need to go have a run."  
"By run I hope you mean catch up with him."  
"Obviously, where else would I go?" It comes out an honest question, and Greg's eyes were left wide and imploring, until John pushed him with a soft 'go', and he runs down where Mycroft went, automatically tracing his usual route to his office. About a block away from the crime scene, he sees Mycroft. He's standing on a street corner, waiting for the traffic to thin out, and Greg put on a burst of speed, grabbing the man and panting through his words.  
"I—I didn't know whether you—you'd want me anymore, but I don't care because you—you're amazing and I want to have what could've had before." He pants, still pinning Mycroft against the wall, a warm hand on each of the other man's shoulders. When he looked up, the taller man was looking down with an expression Greg had never seen before—of such deep tenderness it almost hurt. The taller man pressed down, and joined them at the lips. Greg's entire being flooded with relief, and a satisfying comfort that Mycroft wouldn't be going anywhere.

**A/N: WOW SAPPY CHAPTERS ANDBAD WRITING AND UNEDITED AND REALLY CR*PPY UPDATING I AM SORRY  
life suks u no**


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